


heaven is a place where nothing ever happens

by Contra



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 16:11:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16267727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Contra/pseuds/Contra
Summary: After the end of the world, there comes a new morning. (Really pointless Fluff.)





	heaven is a place where nothing ever happens

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this artwork by Nathan Coley:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> And that's seriously the story guys.

 

 

there is a small cottage at the end of time.

you wake up in the morning and you’re damned. you put on the cream sweater that he left on the chair, it’s funny that he’s always the messier one when it comes to these things, and the sweater is frayed wool that smells of him, and you’re still damned.

you walk into the kitchen, and there he is, making eggs benedict and smiling. you’re so fucking damned you’re blessed again.

 

“how’s it today?” he asks and he’s got a piece of eggshell sticking to his exposed forearm, there is early-morning-seashore-light coming in through the window. it lights up his hair like a shrine.

“oh, you know,” you tell him. “not the apocalypse.”

 

and that’s become the yardstick between you, is the world ending or is it not, you lean on the dark wooden kitchen counter that he insisted on buying, listen to the seagulls screaming outside.

you look at him, the way he focuses his entire being on making you breakfast, both of you have seen too many empires turn into dust. there’s no battles here except him and the tea kettle, him and the stack of books by the door that occasionally collapses, him and his hair, sometimes, he fights valiantly with pomade and a comb.

 

“oh angel,” you say, and you mean it.

he rolls his eyes and it reminds you of when he was one of roughly five people in the entire world to have a weapon, and how he just chose to give it away. you start making tea for the both of you, his favourite that you had in 1823 and then so many mornings since.

this is yours now, all of it.

 

he runs his hand down the sleeve of your-his sweater, absentmindedly returning your smile. it’s a bit a large on you, you think, but it’s fitting.

you put your head on his shoulder for a while. you stood up to heaven and you stood next to him - the two times in your life that you fell.

 

you’ve got a house full of books that you still want to read, and stacks of crossword puzzles you want to watch him solve. you’ve got the bentley parked outside and you’ve got groceries. you’ve got scars somewhere on your body, even if no one but the two of you can see them, you’ve got an entire eternity of damnation in front of you, and yes, you’ve got him.

the two of you sit outside on your porch that looks out over the sea. you’ve both watched this earth grow old together, but it’s so incredibly young this morning.


End file.
